


The Joys of the Libertine; by, Monsieur Dupont

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage but no one ends up really liking it, Clothed Sex, Crack, Crack and Smut, Desk Sex, Fluff and Smut, Javert has terrible taste, Light Bondage, M/M, Madeleine Era, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Snark, bad erotica, identity dubcon issues, masturbating to porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:47:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt: "Valjean/Javert, erotica. In which Javert confiscates illegal possession of pornography only to find it's our favorite kind of homoerotica. He ends up keeping it. He takes pleasure from it and secretly fantasizes Madeleine and himself in the place of the main characters. Then Madeleine discovers his dirty book and makes Javert read the filthy passages aloud while the mayor does those very things to him in real life. For repentance. Why else?"</p><p>also known as that one time I finished a chapter of a wip, thought of a little plotbunny then dropped it, saw this prompt, and then spent 17 consecutive hours laughing hysterically to myself as i wrote 5k words of a weirdly fluffy thing of possibly less cracky than expected porn</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Joys of the Libertine; by, Monsieur Dupont

**Author's Note:**

> Originally found [here](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=5237295#t5237295). slightly edited from the previous form. love and hugs to y'all who joined me on my early morning quest to avoid having another wip

“What is this?” Javert flicks the small book from Lefevre’s hands and peers at the page. The first thing he sees is the illustration. His eyes go very wide.

“You saw the illustration,” says Lefevre. Javert shudders and twitches the book shut.

“Yes, and I wish I hadn’t. You did not answer my question, what _is_ this?”

“I confiscated it from a bookseller,” Lefevre explains hurriedly. “There have been several incidents at the new school where some of the older students were putting these in the covers of their schoolbooks in order to go unnoticed, and eventually some of the teachers noticed that the students whose grades were slipping were also the ones looking at their books the most, and bringing their books to the washroom, and –”

“Yes, yes, I see,” Javert interrupts. He closes his eyes. The illustration has seared itself on his brain. He does not think he will ever be able to saddle a horse without blushing again.

“We have taken in the entire stock as evidence,” Lefevre goes on. “I just wished to know how deep the extent of this depravity went.”

“Undoubtedly,” Javert says. Lefevre is not meeting his eyes.

Javert tosses the book over his shoulder.

“No doubt you have gleaned very important information from this exercise. I suggest you focus on your duties in the future, Lefevre,” he says acidly, and Lefevre slumps at his desk, face scarlet. “Good day.”

 

It is raining when he leaves at the end of the day. He bundles together papers and files from his desk, tucks them inside his greatcoat, and slouches his shoulders forward in an effort to keep dry, rain pattering on his hat.

At home, though, when he extracts the papers from his coat, hoping they have stayed intact, a thin book falls out and flops on his bed. Plain covers, no title, he has opened it before he remembers, and by then it is too late. Mercifully it is not the engraving, but a word has already hooked his eyes and dragged them to the end of a sentence, and then another. _Michel moaned as his manhood was pumped with exceeding fervor and the ravening Serge pounded his firm and throbbing tool deep into his inflamed and hot tight passage. “I’m going to spill my hot male cream,” he groaned –_

Javert feels lightheaded. He cannot breathe. This is not improving literature. This is filth, this is the basest and most disturbing description of sodomitic acts, and yet he is hard, and horrified, and also confused. He does not know whose hot male cream is going to spill. It is only a need for clarification that makes him read on. He tells himself these things.

_“I want to feel your semen in me, Serge,” Michel mewled, the insubordinate soldier now fully at the mercy of the powerful and gorgeously muscled sergeant who thrusted into him powerfully._

_Serge slapped his ass and yelled, “You don’t deserve it! I’m going to come on your face.” He pulled out and stroked his giant weeping cock until he squirted great ribbons of hot white semen all over his mouth and cheeks._

Javert gives up. No one will know. He will do this and he will burn the damn book later. He sits on the edge of his bed and wriggles out of his trousers, just enough to free his cock and start tugging on it with the embarrassing speed of a teenager.

_Michel took the hot and salty load on his tongue. The big sergeant groaned. “That’ll teach you to be disobedient!”_

There is a very undignified moan. It takes Javert a second to process that it came out of his mouth. He keeps reading.

_The strong hips of Serge pumped as he fucked Michel again, his cock still hard. Michel screamed as Serge kept on hitting that special pleasure secret inside him. “Yes, Serge!”_

_“You’re a slut!” Serge shouted. “A dirty, disobedient slut! Don’t touch yourself! I’m going to make you spill hot salty seed all over yourself just with my cock!”_

_Michel grabbed at the bigger man’s big thick shoulders and arms. “Don’t stop!” he screamed. “I’m going to come!”_

Javert turns the page and there is another engraving but this time instead of an anatomically impossible position complete with riding crops and bridles there is – Michel and Serge, he supposes, locked in an embrace. The ink has smudged and Serge’s arm looks improbably muscular. Michel’s expression is difficult to understand; he supposes it might be pleasure but it looks to him overly like constipation.

It is easily the most awful thing Javert has seen. It goes against every principle of sense, morality, and good taste central to his being. He spends so hard he almost tears the page as his fingers tighten on it.

He cleans himself off and flips through the rest of the book at the same time. It must have fallen on his desk when he threw it away, he realizes, and been caught up in the rest of his papers. The book is entitled “The Joys of the Libertine”; the author gives his name only as Monsieur Dupont. There are many stories and many illustrations. It seems that Michel and Serge are not the only players; he notes the presence of quite a few women, and partnerships that shift and flow. It would be so, to find such a broad readership. To his relief there is not much else like the riding-crop picture. But there are plenty of combinations of mouths and hands and private parts, and places he had no idea could even be –

Javert snaps the book shut. His eyes dart to the stove, then again to the book in his hand. Then to where his cock is once again rising to push against the fabric of his trousers.

“Damn,” he says. The book opens almost of its own accord. This time Michel is squirming underneath a handsome young woodcutter.  Also muscled, also strong. He hates where his thoughts turn.

“I will burn this accursed thing in the morning,” he says. Saying it out loud does not make it sound any more convincing. He decides to forgo talking in favor of more self-gratification.

_“Oh, Bruno! Oh, oh, oh!!!” Michel cried, as the lusty woodsman pounded into his ass._

Javert has to fight down alternating urges to laugh and cry.

 

“Javert,” says Madeleine, lifting the slim volume with a pen, “have you heard of this?”

The binding is different, but Javert recognizes the size and shape and is tempted to scream. “Yes, Monsieur.” It has been several days. Every night he has ended up reading another encounter between Michel and the eternally erect prick of some bulky, masculine man. Eventually the names blurred together and Bruno, Serge, Luc, Claude somehow began to take on the same form, the same face – he had tried to focus on the engravings, but the faces were still, and when he made them move they moved like Madeleine’s, and their voices were his.

And then there had been the chapter about Michel’s adventures with a businessman, “ _whose years bore no force on his beauty, nor the power of his arms, nor his ability to maintain the sweet firmness of his cock_.” It was enough to make him want to hunt down that damn “Monsieur Dupont,” wherever he was, and forcibly feed him every last copy of the damned work.

The Mayor’s eyebrows rise. “Have you?”

“We have caught the culprit and are pressing charges. He has corrupted youth.” _And a hopeless, weak-willed police inspector_ , Javert adds mentally. “He will be brought to justice.”

“In truth, I do not know what this book is about, to provoke such a response,” says Madeleine. “I asked because I had been hoping you would tell me.” Javert’s heart sinks; in his mind’s eye, he imagines a pit opening in the earth below his feet, just enough to swallow him up and leave the rest of the office undisturbed. “I imagine it must be something very grievous, to make it so recognizable at first glance.”

Madeleine is looking at him sidelong, with a peculiar light in his eye – Javert blinks, then folds his arms. Well, two can play at that game.

“It is a volume of written pornographic material,” he says flatly. “It is filth. It is filled with sodomy, and – bad hygiene, and unnatural sexual acts. Extremely graphic. There are illustrations. I suggest you avoid the one on page sixty-seven.”

Madeleine turns the pages. “Interesting.” Javert purses his lips and waits. Madeleine turns the pages some more, then stops at a place Javert knows very well; it is where the businessman Pascal requests that Michel palm him off beneath the table of a café. His eyes linger there. After a moment they move. Then they move again. Madeleine is reading. After another few seconds, he lifts a hand and begins to follow a line with his forefinger and Javert can stand it no longer. “Monsieur Dupont’s” last meal now includes his own hands, fried.

“You are reading it,” he says accusatorily.

Madeleine lifts his attention from the book; Javert’s internal organs seem to rearrange themselves. “And so I am,” he says mildly. “But from the looks of it, you have, too.”

“I am the police,” he says. His temples throb. Other parts are beginning to swell too. “You are not. Reading this is necessary to prosecute the guilty parties.”

Madeleine peers at him. “You are sure?” He does not wait for an answer, only turns back a few pages and begins to read out loud. “ _He was strong and broad-shouldered, his waistcoat gripping him tightly about his powerful torso, the muscles of his hairy forearms rippling beneath his shirt. His trousers, too, were flush to his skin, to his flesh, to the enormous cock that was delineated so clearly against his thick and mighty thigh –_ ”

Javert is shaking. “Monsieur,” he blurts out, “please, have mercy, end this.”

Madeleine raises his eyebrows at him, and he is finished. He storms forward, reaches, grabs Madeleine by the collar, and kisses him.

Madeleine responds by grabbing him in turn and hauling him across the desk. That is not expected. Papers scatter; Javert’s position is awkward, half lying and half kneeling on the desk, upper body pressed to Madeleine’s. But the way he had lifted Javert off his feet with hardly a grunt, and without breaking the kiss – it is a heady rush. Arousal hums in his blood.

Madeleine still has not let go of the book; it is pressed against Javert’s arm. When they break away Madeleine’s eyes flick there and Javert flushes.

“Tell me more about this book,” Madeleine says, the vibrations of his voice tangible against Javert’s chest. Javert flushes; he hears the hidden message, _tell me what it has made you think about me._ He struggles to find speech as Madeleine moves his hands to his waist and drags him closer so now he is sitting on the edge of the desk, legs parted. Madeleine begins to fumble at his clothes, still seated. It is very hard to concentrate.

“There is a man Michel,” he manages to say. “He is endlessly eager to have men – inside him.” Madeleine’s hand grasps his cock and he jolts; the hand begins to move and his hips jerk again. “Please, do not stop –” he babbles.

“Inside?” Madeleine’s hand strokes again, even slower, and Javert thinks he might die at the flat, calm tones of the other man’s voice. “I am sure the book is more explicit than that, Javert.”

“Yes,” he pants, “yes – well, he wishes to have men’s cocks in his mouth, and in his backside, and to be fucked in the outdoors, or tied up, and for men to spend on his face and body and in his ass and it is all very wrong and filthy and God, would you move faster!”

“You have imagined yourself as this Michel, then?” Madeleine has been yanking his trousers down his legs with the other hand all this time; he tries to help him along by lifting his hips off the desk and ends up thrusting into Madeleine’s hand. He groans. “Fuck, fuck, yes, yes I have –” His trousers are tangled around his feet now, and Madeleine’s hands are everywhere, scrabbling at his uniform, tearing off his shirt – and appallingly absent from his cock, so Javert takes matters into his own hands quite literally and starts to stroke himself. Madeleine slaps his hand away, grabs the other, and pins them both to the desk behind him; there is some confusion and then Javert tries to move his arms and he cannot. Madeleine has tied his hands behind his back with his uniform. He jerks against the ties.

“Like this?” Madeleine asks, looking pleased as a cat presented with a cream-saucer. And he is still sitting in his damn chair! “How you have learned to do all these damn things at once without even getting up I have no wish to discover,” Javert grumbles, “have you fifty arms? and yet you are not bothering to use your powers of multitasking to give my cock any attention whatsoever –”

Madeleine stands up and bodily flips Javert over so he lands on his stomach on the desk; pens jump in the air, and he lies there, winded. “None of this is in the damn book, either,” he gasps out when he catches his breath again, “did you really not read it? I am sure you must have, since you seem very interested in Michel’s escapades with Pascal –”

Madeleine forces his head down to the desk. “Remind me of that story again,” he says, low and hot against Javert’s ear, and Javert shivers. “You seem to have a good memory of the details.”

“Oh, in the Lord’s holy – fuck. Well, Pascal sees Michel on the street, and asks Michel to come drink with him at a café, because in this book, no one has any concept of appropriate conduct between men of different standing, but I suppose it is forgiven because Pascal is a degenerate as is Michel, and wants him to rub his cock under the tablecloth while they are sitting in plain view of everybody around them.” He hears a strange wet noise behind him and then there are slick fingers pushing into the crack of his ass and he would jolt upright if he was not being pinned to the table; as it is, his legs kick in surprise and narrowly miss cracking Madeleine’s shins. “Ah! What is that!”

“Hand cream. Keep going.”

Javert squirms as the fingers slide around his hole; one of them begins to move inside, probing – strangely enough, it tickles – the book had never mentioned tickling, this is almost unfair, he wants to laugh. “God, I – anyway, then Michel complies. Somehow they do not get caught. He brings off Pascal with his hand.” He twists his head around to try and see Madeleine’s face. “You have truly not read this?”

Something lands with a dry slap on the other side of his head; his head is still pinned to the desk so he has to smear his cheek and nose across the hard surface before he can see what made the sound. He blinks. It is the damn book. Javert does not even recall its original title anymore, all he can think of it as is That Damn Book. Madeleine’s hand descends into his field of view, flips the book open. Javert feels the pressure on his head lessen – then there is pain as Madeleine yanks on his hair, forcing Javert to hold his head up. “Ow! Monsieur!”

Madeleine shoves the book under his nose. “Read it.”

Javert cranes his neck. “‘ _Oh, Sir, I long for your love,_ ’” he begins haltingly, then stops. “So you have not,” he says. Mirth is rising to the surface like a leviathan.

“Portions. Fragments. Why? Is it important?” The finger is back, pushing further inside, and tickle it might but Javert wants this. “Oh – no – of course not,” he chokes out, and scans the page.

“You have moved ahead of the plot,” he says at last, the final syllable cutting off short as Madeleine adds a second finger; they are moving more steadily and pushing deeper and yes, it is certainly as good as advertised. “Er – Michel has gone home with Pascal to be his kept man, with a precious little uniform that for some inexplicable reason is in Michel’s size.” How he is maintaining both the powers of speech and literacy he does not know. “And they wish to consummate their bond by the penetration of Michel by Pascal’s ‘ _glorious and mighty proud manhood_ ’ –” Javert winces at the ache in his neck and his back. “This is not a very comfortable position,” he complains.

“Read,” Madeleine commands. His fingers crook and Javert gasps.

“Fuck! All right. _Pascal was hard as the marble that built his palace of pleasure._ You know, that does not sound healthy. Did I mention, just before they decided to engage in sodomy, Michel brought Pascal off again? This time with his mouth. That was not two minutes past. These people ought to be examined by men of science, they are veritable miracles.” A third finger joins the rest and Javert bucks. “Fine, fine! _He perceived Michel’s ass to be the most perfect and pert thing he had ever seen, two glowing moonlike orbs that flexed like horses running a strong race,_ I do not even know what that means, _and he pressed a finger into the hot and steamy chasm of love between them. His fingers moved and flexed in Michel’s own filthy burning palace of_ – fuck – _pleasure._ ” Javert pauses to catalogue the rush of sensation as Madeleine twists his fingers and God, hell, he can forgive all the strange literature in the world, this could drive some men to madness - “ _This almost drove Michel to madness_ ,” he reads. Now each thrust of Madeleine’s fingers drives out a breath that is half a laugh and half a moan. “ _In this moment Michel was readied for the driving in of Pascal’s mighty, strong, powerful fleshly love chariot._ ”

Madeleine stops moving. There is a strange tremor in his hands. Javert tries to squint upwards and find out what is happening. “Monsieur Madeleine?” he inquires.

There is a noise like a teakettle, and then Madeleine is laughing. He pulls his fingers from Javert’s ass. Great, heaving gusts of laughter. Madeleine loosens his grip on Javert’s hair slightly and his mouth smears across the table. He makes a noise to try and attract Madeleine’s attention but the Mayor’s laughter shows no signs of stopping.

“Monsieur,” he barks at last, muffled by the table, “if you would kindly decide whether you wish to continue this or not, it would be much appreciated.”

Madeleine does not stop laughing, in fact it grows worse, but he gently lowers Javert’s head to the desk, before wrapping a thick arm around his chest and hauling him upright, pressing chest to back. It is an immense relief to Javert’s neck. More importantly, it brings his backside in closer proximity to what feels like Madeleine’s cock – he presses the back of his thigh further against the hardness; yes, it is a cock, stiff, and unbelievably enough, still in his trousers. “Get that thing out, hurry up,” he says impatiently, and grinds against it some more.

Madeleine’s laughing has not subsided, only petered out into snorts, but he complies. Javert risks another crick in his neck to try and peer behind him but all he can see are glimpses of shoulder and waistcoat. “You are still in all your clothes?” he asks incredulously.

“Are they naked in the book?”

“Please do not talk about the book,” Javert answers stiffly. “The book tells me that sodomy happens with little fanfare, that pricks slide as easily into rectums as though they are slide whistles. I would assume the hand cream means otherwise.”

“I have done – some of my own research on the matter.”

There is that slick sound again. “How are you doing that with only one hand?” Javert asks, trying to imagine the scene behind him. An open jar of hand cream, balanced – where? Does it hang on a string from the ceiling? Is Madeleine saintly enough that he is capable of levitating objects? Although saintliness is not an adjective he would readily apply to this scenario. He thinks of a section of That Damn Book, where Michel and a priest and a nun all arrange themselves in a triangle, mouths to private parts. It had been titillating and horrifying enough to fit along with the rest of the stories, but the nun did something sick with a rosary and the priest had not been sufficiently broad and muscled so he had somewhat skimmed that one. Well, that is it, he is damned. So be it.

Something thick, confusingly thick and blunt, but no, it is not confusing at all, he has been wasting time thinking of That Damn Book, it is strange and fleshy and pushing at him, into him – “Oh, that is what it feels like, perhaps Monsieur Blasted Seventh Hell Devil Dupont could have spent more time describing this,” he complains weakly, suddenly nervous. “God damn –”

Madeleine stills. “Javert, would you like me to –”

“Yes!” When Madeleine begins to pull back Javert realizes his mistake. “No, no, damn you, I did not realize what you were asking – do it, do it, fuck, hell, my mouth is filthy, perhaps you ought to gag me, that was in the damned book too, page twenty-five, mmph.” There is a hand clamped on his mouth. “Thank you,” he says, or would say if it did not come out as an inarticulate mumble, and then hisses against the hand, opens his mouth, tastes the salt and soap and washed-cloth flavor of Monsieur Madeleine’s palm, he is stretching open, it hurts, but every bit of Madeleine’s cock that eases into him makes him wriggle with something more than pain.

Madeleine sets to moving his hips back and forth. There is none of the fluidity Javert had read about, and Madeleine does not make noises that can accurately be described as grunts and moans – they are too choked, too much like sighs, almost sobbing at times. Javert’s bound hands turn to pins and needles in the rumpled nest of his uniform, and jog uncomfortably between their bodies. The edge of the desk digs against his belly. Muscles cramp and protest in his neck and legs and shoulders. He is only half-hard; Madeleine seems to have forgotten the very existence of Javert’s cock, and some inner part of him rolls his eyes. _You have a free hand_ , he thinks dimly. It is nothing like That Damn Book could ever have prepared him for, it is sweaty and awkward and he does not know why but, Lord, it is glorious, and good.

The motions pause, and he grunts inquiringly against the hand; the hand is removed. “Javert, I have an idea,” Madeleine says.

No one talked about ideas in That Damn Book, everything simply happened, nearly effortlessly. “Pray tell, and get to fucking me again,” Javert grits out, face scarlet.

“That is precisely – yes, well –” Madeleine slides out and Javert _whines_ , whines like a dog, and it ends in a gasp, “Monsieur, please –”

There is a tugging at his wrists and then the bound mess of his uniform falls from him; his fingers tingle unpleasantly. “You did that with one hand, too,” Javert marvels, not quite sure what he is saying.

He straightens up shakily, feeling strange and – loose, oiled, between his legs; the arm around him drops away and he turns to face Madeleine.

Madeleine’s gaze tracks up and down his body and his does the same for Madeleine’s; it is an uncomfortable moment when their eyes meet, although that is ludicrous, the man has literally just had his cock inside him, there cannot yet be bashfulness between them. He decides to kiss him. Except for his trousers, every inch of the man is still buttoned; when he lifts his hands to Madeleine’s waistcoat, they are flicked away and brought down gently but firmly to his sides. The kiss goes on. And on. It is all very pleasant, but Javert is growing impatient.

A thought occurs to him. He pulls back. “Would you,” he says, “please, for the love of God, tell me what your idea was? I would hope it was good, to interrupt all that, and it had better not have been ‘let us kiss and kiss and never get around to sodomy again’ because if that is so I will make you eat your thrice-cursed hand cream.” He glances to the side. As it turns out, it had been situated in a convenient, open desk drawer, not levitating after all.

Madeleine sputters with laughter. “I – yes, I will, it was that you might – this,” and he pushes Javert back gently, until his back is against the desk, and Javert grasps his meaning, levers himself atop the desk again. But Madeleine’s hand is still on his chest, still pushing, and Javert goes along with it until he is lying flat on his back, hips and legs still dangling awkwardly over the edge. He twists for a second to retrieve and fling away a pen digging into his back, then he lies still, gazing up at Madeleine.

“Knees up,” Madeleine says, gesturing, and understanding flares to life. He obeys. Madeleine shuffles forward, hands loose on Javert’s thighs – he drops one to position his cock properly, Christ it is huge, small wonder Javert was confused initially when the thing has proportions less relevant to cocks than to May-poles – it is enthralling to see the thickness sliding into himself, easier than before, familiar; his head falls back and he sighs. This is more comfortable.

It is still nothing like Monsieur Dupont’s masterpiece, though this angle seems to be more helpful to giving him pleasure, although that may be because Madeleine finally takes notice of Javert’s hardness and starts caressing it, and it is better than he could have dreamed – he still does not know what could warrant phrases like “hot male cream,” when the only adjectives that first spring to mind regarding what he eventually spurts are “unpleasant” and “messy” – he is not sure what sort of wormy brain could have thought that the only parts of a man’s body worth describing are his chest and arms and cock when it is the crinkles at the corners of Madeleine’s eyes he craves most, how he looks when he spends, lurching and crying out and leaning over Javert’s body like he is praying – the ass that Madeleine pulls out of is not pert, nor is it pale, or worth attaching celestial terms to, but he rubs a hand over it anyway, smiles at Javert’s scowl, presses kisses to his knees and then his feet – he is not sure, but he is learning, that lust or love for a man might drive one to begin unwise endeavors, and it is only a mercy that he is at least aware of his incapacity to write.

He says as much, afterwards. “If I could write, I would be writing you sonnets now,” he tells Madeleine, as he eases into his trousers. “Never mind that I do not properly know what a sonnet is.”

Madeleine laughs. “I would rather read your uncertain sonnets than anything our dear friend Monsieur Dupont might dream up.” He nods at the book, now somehow jounced halfway across the room during their exploits on the desk. It seems forever consigned to the fate of being thrown at things. “How will you deal with these? There are more copies, for sure.”

Javert snorts. “Burn them, most likely.”

“Surely we should leave some, or just one, as a testament to the powers of love,” Madeleine protests, teasingly, watching Javert struggle to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt, or perhaps pound a pile of wrinkles back into a shirtlike shape. “I did not get to find out what was the fate of Pascal’s valiant love cart, or whatever it was called.”

Javert gives up and puts on the pile of wrinkles. “What do you think happens to valiant love carts? They relieve their loads and go on their way.” He shrugs as he buttons. “And anyway, do not despair at the thought of this magnum opus leaving this world forever, no doubt the bonfire we will make will be much smaller than intended. We have already caught two youngsters trying to sneak into the prefecture to retrieve their copies. And I harbor suspicions about a great deal of my men.” _I still have yet to fling my copy into the stove_ , he thinks. He imagines it going up in flames. If there is any pain or nostalgia in the thought he does not notice it.

“Well, I will hold this copy, for now,” Madeleine muses. “And think on what to do about it.”

“You may do as you wish, Monsieur Mayor,” Javert says severely, tying his cravat, “but pornography is still illegal to possess, and the police are always watching.” He flicks his gaze to Madeleine, who looks like a rabbit dropped in a kennel. “Particularly in the bedroom. If that thing finds its way into our activities again I swear to you I will not hesitate in setting it, you, and everything in the room on fire.”

Madeleine splutters, tension easing from his shoulders, and Javert lets the grin he had been holding in spread over his face. Perhaps Madeleine might unbutton yet. The book was right about one thing, at least: the joys of the libertine were certainly many and varied.

**Author's Note:**

> fun dvd extras!!!  
> \- on my computer, this is actually saved as "What is this" because i can't think of titles and that was the first line and i find that remarkably appropriate  
> \- "dupont" and "lefevre" are like the french equivalents of "john smith" or "john doe" (i mean lefevre even means smith) maybe y'all know this already but whatever  
> \- i literally googled "french sexy guy names" to come up with the porn characters' names  
> \- i worried my readers would be unable to understand my descriptions of their positions, so i drew a picture ([linky link](http://67.media.tumblr.com/e4c86559f624d5a3c4180c55e68def67/tumblr_mkbq1aD21F1qdqhh7o1_1280.jpg)) with stick figures. valjean looks like slenderman and they're like 10 miles apart even though they're supposed to be fucking in the picture and i don't know ok my friends my friends, i'm running on 2 hours of sleep  
> \- did you know! the term "pornography" was not widely used until about mid-1800s, and porn was mostly written or drawn stuff that rich white dudes kept in private libraries or collections and everyone worried about erotica getting to the (theremin noises) lower classes and then magazines happened and we all know what came next, but yeah, basically, this fic is not particularly historically sound in the slightest. sry  
> \- i had just been imagining that morning what would happen if javert and valjean riffed on badly written porn together, so when this prompt showed up it was like manna outta heaven and they combined weirdly nicely, i don't think i could've stood to write serious porn INSIDE serious porn so instead i wrote awful porn inside awkward fumbly porn, and i think it turned out ok.  
> \- i'm never gonna understand how the hell i can go from "writer's block for 2 years" to "pounding out 5k words of porn over the course of a single day" and i feel as though i've been possessed


End file.
